I've been living in the red
by Toraptor
Summary: In the eyes of the Rebellion, she was very much an enemy. She was useful in the same way a deadly serpent might be useful, milked for venom and locked up in a glass cage and jeered at. It had not been ideal. It had not been pretty. Compared to the alternative, it was doable. [Sequel to Stars, Shadow Weaver x Huntara]


**notes: I'm going down with this (crack) ship. I also realized Shadow Weaver's name is not spelled with a dash until AFTER I'd written both of these. I'm not going to go and edit all them this time, but any fics from here on out will probably be without it. Title taken from Forget, by Marina and the Diamonds.**

* * *

Shadow-Weaver had no intentions of keeping her promise to meet Huntara at eight o'clock. There was no conceivable reason for her to interact with Huntara, to tolerate her presence, let alone seek her out from her own free will. It was with the sinking suspicion she was making a terrible miscalculation that Shadow-Weaver proved herself a liar of the worst caliber. A liar to the people around her and, most of all, to herself.

The book did little to distract her from the nagging, crawling urge to melt into the shadows and disappear. It intensified when Huntara arrived, vaulting from one of the trees as though the streets and paths were beneath her, and landed with a tumble.

She was all muscle, standing taller and broader than Shadow-Weaver. The sun from the Crimson Wastes seemed to have baked itself into her skin, radiating warmth, as though she'd carried a piece of the desert to Brightmoon with her. It was unbearable. Even worse, she remembered Huntara. She'd been younger and enthusiastic to prove herself to the Horde, only to vanish in the night, presumed dead. The Horde had been pitifully wrong, though Shadow-Weaver had yet to discover whether she despaired of it.

Nothing if not upfront, Huntara swept across the clearing to Shadow-Weaver. A quick hand reached out to snatch hers, but she had learned from their first meeting, and dodged it under the guise of flipping a page. Huntara's grin in response was chagrinned, in a what-can-you-do sort of way that informed Shadow-Weaver that behavior would not being stopping any time soon.

"Another nice night, eh?" said Huntara, side-eying Shadow-Weaver in a way that would have gone unnoticed by most people. She pushed thick locks of white hair off her shoulders, bound back on her head. When she crossed her arms, rather than the mulishness Shadow-Weaver felt when she did it, the definition of muscles and bulk seem to root her presence to reality. Strong and firm—stubborn.

"It is night," said Shadow-Weaver. "Nice is a matter of perspective. I imagine the night will sour when you do not get what you're looking for."

Huntara arched a fine eyebrow, which was decidedly not the reaction Shadow-Weaver was expecting. A huff, maybe, or a sharp retort. Not patience, and certainly not amusement.

"So, you know what I'm looking for?"

Let it be known, Shadow-Weaver was not born yesterday. Nor was she oblivious to social queues and hints. She had opened that particular door, should have expected the way the conversation turned, but was left teetering on the edge of what was dangerously close to awkward. Because, in the end, she had not expected Huntara to be so upfront. It was possible she'd spent too much time in the dark, manipulating three steps ahead and never outright saying what she thought.

Burying her nose in her book was defeat and she knew it, and no amount of drawing defensiveness in the tightness of her shoulders would change that. Going off Huntara's smugness, so palpable that Shadow-Weaver was tempted to take her up on that spar, just to wipe the smirk off her face, she knew it, too.

"What are you reading?" said Huntara, and it took every ounce of self-control gained from years working under Hordak, even before that the Magic Council, for Shadow-Weaver to not grit her teeth audibly.

"A book on the art of magic," she snapped, because she'd already explained that yesterday, and Huntara was doing something—

"You rereading it?"

"Why?" said Shadow-Weaver with narrowed eyes, lips thinned behind her mask, thankful that part of her was still hidden and safe.

"Because you were farther ahead in the book last night."

Shadow-Weaver did a double-take. Sure enough, she was reading a passage she'd already read, probably more than once, and this time couldn't stop a wordless exclamation of annoyance. Really, she didn't know what it would take to scare off Huntara permanently, but it was high time she started experimenting.

"I believe you wished to test your mettle," said Shadow-Weaver, reigning in her patience and finding that lofty place (that small, pathetic place) she used to lounge in when she trained the children. She summoned the barest hint of magic to her fingertips, relishing in the thrills of pure, untainted excitement that had never truly left her from childhood, because she loved magic. Magic was passion and power and Shadow-Weaver was nothing if not powerful. It took the smallest effort to draw a runic circle in the air. "I, too, am curious to see how decades of life in the desert stands up to a sorceress of my caliber—"

However, Huntara was already interrupting her with a hand, shaking her finger back and forth in a way that was absolutely infuriating.

"I have a better idea," said Huntara. "One that is fair, because you are a sorceress and I am many things, but a sorceress is not one of them."

She pulled another blade from her waist, long and slender, shining as though forged from moonlight.

"This is for you, my lady," said Huntara with a flourish and a bow, presenting her the blade as though it was a great boon, despite the swell of indignity roaring within her. "May it serve you well."

It was only the fact Huntara very obviously thought Shadow-Weaver was capable of wielding a sword that stopped her from scoffing and turning away. The choking, strangulation of pride kept her from leaving the clearing cold and empty, grasping the weapon in an uncomfortable grip. The feeling was alien and wrong in her hands. Very casually stowing her book away, Shadow-Weaver passed it between both hands, hoping it would feel better in a dual grip.

She was faced with the unfortunate reality that she was not, in fact, a swordswoman. Nor would she spontaneously achieve the ability to wield a sword.

There was a cough from Huntara, pointed and deliberate, an the ringing sound of another blade being drawn. Dramatic, Shadow-Weaver sneered inwardly, overly-dramatic and attention seeking and annoying. Of course she'd want everyone to hear her blade drawn.

Huntara sidestepped—when had they agreed to start?—with steady and graceful movements. She didn't so much circle as she prowled, back straight and arms positioned in a way that was vaguely familiar. Shadow-Weaver was certain she'd seen Adora use that pose, so she mirrored it.

Foolish. She felt foolish. There was a rap against her weapon, Huntara had moved and Shadow-Weaver hadn't even seen it—to think her Adora had fought this woman off, at a disadvantage and betrayed—

"Up a little," said Huntara, the flat of her blade smacking Shadow-Weaver's hands, drawing what she would deny until her deathbed was a yelp.

That was all it took for Shadow-Weaver to snap, dropping the weapon and drawing out a magic circle, fully intending to pin Huntara against the ground and leave her writhing there—see her try and teach Shadow-Weaver a lesson again—and instead found herself facing the empty space Huntara used to occupy. Gravity upturned itself, which was a feat because Shadow-Weaver didn't even bother walking anymore, chains looping around her arms and waist and hooks digging into the ground.

Pinned, no better than a glass encased butterfly for viewing, Shadow-Weaver lashed out like a snake, quick and furious. A knee pressed against her chest, another pushed into the ground by her neck, a blade against her throat.

She stopped breathing.

Shadow-Weaver was cruel, bitter from shortcomings and grudges that would span the ages. She never deluded herself, even for a second, into thinking she was the top of any food chain. In the magic council, she'd been tolerated with sideways glances and whispers, always a little too much for them. Until finally, she'd pushed too far, crossed the final line. Then, there was the Horde. There was Hordak and his impossible standard, single-minded in his devotion to research. There was Adora and Catra, young and innocent, laughter on monochromatic hallways. She had pushed them to survive, and in their survival, they had almost forgotten how to laugh.

Micah had done nothing but laugh. He'd poked and prodded, gone farther than he ever should, and there had always been that glint in his eyes. He would break the rules, if it was for the greater good. As a child, he's been afraid of the sudden change. She couldn't fault him that, then; she didn't now.

(It could have been the quicksilver smile, the claws that dug in just a little too deeply, that reminded Shadow-Weaver of him. But there was only one Micah, and there was only one Shadow-Weaver, and Catra was neither of them. Catra was something else, and whether it was the greatest mistake of Shadow-Weaver's lengthy list of mistakes, had yet to be seen in full.)

In the eyes of the Rebellion, she was very much an enemy. She was useful in the same way a deadly serpent might be useful, milked for venom and locked up in a glass cage and jeered at. It had not been ideal. It had not been pretty. Compared to the alternative, it was doable.

Huntara was not a bystander, nor a casual observer who leered through the glass. She had the eyes of a desert fox, a predator's eyes, focused and calm. Every part of her was controlled and positioned carefully, ready for the slightest twitch of movement. Shadow-Weaver was no broken, fragmented ruin of a woman, but a dragon contained by will and strategy alone, and she could break free at any moment.

It was—baffling, tantalizing, honey sweet temptation—liberating.

A flick of energy coursing through the sword Huntara had given to her, laying abandoned on the ground, was enough to levitate it up. There was a chink in the chains, the sword lancing through the air, fast a viper to sever it.

Shadow-Weaver blasted Huntara off her, as she closer to materialized to her feet than stood, sweeping the weapon in her hands. It circled like a single hand on a clock, flickering.

"This is will be useful, after all," said Shadow-Weaver, the closest to gratitude she would ever get. There was a pendulum in her chest that never truly died, no matter how she drowned it, that swung when Huntara grinned, vicious and bright.

"First blood?"

For all of a heart beat, Shadow-Weaver actually considered it. That alone was something of a miracle, because she wasn't one to be taken by fancies. She could really enjoy it, spending the night here, relishing in the shock on Huntara's face when she inevitably outmaneuvered her. Only, Huntara clearly had a game plan still, and Shadow-Weaver wasn't about to throw herself into a fight she could not easily win.

She scoffed softly, letting her power die. Huntara didn't quite pout, but it was close enough. She braced her hands on her hips, leather clad, form fitting. Somehow, Shadow-Weaver didn't notice that before now.

The sword clattered against the ground.

"I think not," she said, doing her best not to sound as though she'd been in cloud nine, trying to find that small and miserable space she so often occupied. She struggled a little, and that was also telling. And annoying, because it was Huntara who caused it. "This was—"

Euphoric, the most fun she'd had in decades, but none of that was Huntara's business and she would rather throw herself headlong into another time-space destruction than witness Huntara's reaction to hearing it.

"—an adequate pass time. However, I have business to attend, so I will be taking my—"

She didn't get another word edgewise, as Huntara sheathed her blade, scooped up the other sword and returned it to its sheath as well, and hooked an arm around Shadow-Weavers all in one motion that was dizzyingly swift.

"What business? The cushions in that sorry excuse of a prison?" said Huntara, tearing through Shadow-Weaver's getaway without mercy. Her arm, to Shadow-Weaver's dismay, was every bit as firm as it looked. She could probably crush Shadow-Weaver with the smallest effort. She grinned, and there was a hint of fangs in it. "I found a place that looks like a good night of fun. Wanna join?"

It was a trick question. She was already dragging Shadow-Weaver in the direction of this place, and Shadow-Weaver, stunned and aghast, the littlest bit intrigued, was helpless to stop her.

There was a soft kind of burn in her arm, where Huntara's grip relaxed into a gentle hold, when she was certain Shadow-Weaver wasn't going to flip her into a ditch and leave. It could have been that unnatural warmth that pervaded every inch of Huntara's being, or the fact Shadow-Weaver hadn't been touched since time immemorable, but was pleasant.

By the end of the night, a deeply satisfying kind of soreness had settled into Shadow-Weaver's body. The bench they occupied, just outside the castle, giving a clear view to the lake and the surrounding forests, was big enough for more than two, so Huntara had flung a leg over most of it dissuade any brave passersby.

Huntara was languid, an arm wrapped stubbornly around Shadow-Weaver's waist, unmovable. Shadow-Weaver scowled at it, arms crossed, but made no real attempt to escape. There were knots she hadn't known were tangled that uncoiled, basking in a warmth that radiated to her bones.

"Do you still wish you'd stayed in your room?" said Huntara, grinning down at her, sending a shower of white hair flowing over Shadow-Weaver's head.

Huntara looked as though she already knew the answer (she did) and it was for that reason alone, contrarily, that Shadow-Weaver said, "At least I had cushions."

There was a sudden glint in Huntara's eyes that put chills down Shadow-Weaver's spine. She dodged out of Huntara's attempt to grab her just in time. She might have sacrificed much, but her dignity wasn't one of those things, and she wasn't intending to give up on it yet.

The problem with starting a chase with a woman called Huntara, who survived decades in the Crimson Wastes, was that she was Huntara, and nothing if not tenacious. Shadow-Weaver bore the attention and dedication with (contentment) patience, even as she loathed with every fiber of her being the look of undulated joy Princess Perfuma gave her the next morning.

It was entertainment. It would be sheered, eventually, but for now she played along. And if it put lightning in her veins, claps of thunder in her chest, no one would ever know.

* * *

The sun was high and warm, a fraction of the strength Huntara was used to. A steady coolness leeched away the heat from her arm. Shadow-Weaver was small and calm in her sleep, hair flat against her back. Somehow, it endlessly amusing to know she did that on purpose, to know that her drama wasn't something Huntara imagined.

All the blood in her arm was draining, there was a crick in her shoulder, but it would take the second coming of the apocalypse to move her. She gave a thumbs up to Adora, who wasn't nearly as subtle as she thought she was, a triumphant grin that was reflected by the flower princess.

So much of Shadow-Weaver was still shrouded in mystery, least of all her masked face, but Huntara wasn't one to give up. She was interested and a persistent, and even better: so was Shadow-Weaver. Oh, Shadow-Weaver could put on a big show of annoyance, sneering out her superiority, but her curiosity was piqued.

Huntara may have left behind the wildness of the Crimson Wastes, but it was good to know some things didn't change.

"Still got it."


End file.
